


The Man on the Corner

by infamyparadox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, minor feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:53:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infamyparadox/pseuds/infamyparadox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Johnlock gift exchange 2012 for tumblr user elpemmy. Prompt was: "When Sherlock gets jealous… Preferably angst. Preferably not an AU or a Hamish!fic."</p><p>It's more fluff than anything because I am terrible at writing angst. Forgive me, elpemmy! And it's implied Johnlock more than full on intercourse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man on the Corner

There were days when Sherlock despised his brother more than any other human in the world. For the past three months, they had all been Tuesdays.  
It had been a difficult battle to win, and god knows all the strings he had to pull to get this plan to fruition. The place, the time- but most importantly, the disguise. From the itchy beard down to the stained socks, it all had to be perfect. It had to be flawless and infallible and good enough to fool his own mother. Only when these requirements had been fulfilled did Mycroft allow him out onto the streets.  
Every Tuesday for the past three months he sat, hunched and cold beyond belief, under the awning of a small café on Baker Street. He sat, waiting with a patience more tedious than he could have believed possible. And yet, there he stayed, cup outstretched, sharp eyes hidden by the shaggy wig that hung conveniently over his face. Completely unrecognizable.  
His spot was directly in front of a surveillance camera on a lamp post; although it was supposed to be comforting to know that literal Big Brother was there, watching, it was also uncomfortable too. And humiliating. Definitely humiliating.  
But it was worth it for that moment. For the one moment when he saw the man walking down the street, shoulders hunched against the harsh winds of fall. Every Tuesday at 1 pm, he would walk by Sherlock. Every Tuesday at 1 pm he would put money in the cup. And every Tuesday at 1 pm, Sherlock was able to read John Watson and find out exactly how he was doing.  
It had been a process to be sure- especially since Sherlock couldn’t say anything at all to John, or even make his presence known. It was too risky. Everyone thought he was dead, and to be discovered at such a time would be inopportune to say the least.  
That was the worst part of this scheme. Sherlock could deduce John’s state of being to his content, but never could he try to remedy it. The first week was monstrous; the usually immaculate jumper was stained with tea, and poked out of his coat at odd ends. An immediate sign that he had other things weighing on his mind. The hair was unbrushed, dark circles decorated the space beneath his eyes.  
Sherlock sat there and watched it all. Every sign of depression and sorrow was displayed in perfect form on the ex-military man’s body. He radiated instability, and Sherlock absorbed it like an alcoholic- a penance for the pain he had caused. It was starting to get better as well. John was slowly pulling himself together as Sherlock was slowly finishing shutting down Moriarity’s operations completely. Everything was coming together nicely, but something unexpected occurred: Sherlock had deduced incorrectly.  
That Tuesday was to be like any other. A simple observation, nothing more nothing less. Sherlock sat there, cup out, waiting with that same reluctant patience he had grown to lovingly despise. He heard the familiar fall of footsteps on pavement, and knew without looking up who was about to pass. But there…something was off.  
The whiff of perfume hit him before he saw her heels standing next to the two familiar loafers. It was like a slap in the face, carried by the wind and divine vengeance. His final torture.  
John stood beside a woman, both heads on equal height. She was not very beautiful, but something there was a kindness in the way she held herself- a demure incline of the head and a respectful gaze that seemed to be turning slowly to pity as she took in the state of the disguised ex-consulting detective.  
Harsh venom flowed through Sherlock’s vein as the pair stood before him. Holding hands. He wanted to spit; something to get this bad taste in his mouth out of his body.  
“Mary,” John began. This was the strongest his voice had been in the past three months. Disgusting. “I think I’m going to go get some work done at home. I’ll call you, then?”  
This Mary returned his obvious facial spasm with a charming smile of her own, damn her.  
“Of course. I’ll be seeing you then.”  
There was an awkward moment, then a small peck on the cheek administered by John. They parted ways with the small wave of infatuated school children.  
So that was how it was. Here they were, healing together, and John had to pull some woman into it! Typical.  
Didn’t John know it was supposed to be just the two of them? It was Sherlock and John, not Sherlock and John and some third wheel. It ruined the dynamic. Plus, what did he see in that girl? No blazing look of intelligence on her, but then again John never did like them smarter than him. Perhaps it was an inferiority complex.  
But it seemed as though John was forgetting all about him. This was not acceptable.  
While Sherlock was lost in his musings, the two had both turned their separate corners. Mycroft’s voice came to his head through the little ear bud attached to him.  
“Alright. Time to head back to home base now. A car will be waiting to pick you up in the usual place.”  
Sherlock stood smoothly with a fluidity so unlike his façade’s crippled exterior that those passing by stopped in shock. Mycroft could be heard over the ear bud, although his wordless sharp intake of breath could hardly be counted as something to truly be heard.  
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” It had certainly taken him long enough to get over his surprise.  
Sherlock began to pull various bits and pieces off of his face, letting his skin touch the cool, crisp air. As he shed his disguise, he began to walk briskly down the path John had just taken.  
“I think I’m feeling a big homesick, Mycroft. Need to get the cure desperately.”  
“Sherlock, think this through. It’s too early for you to reveal yourself! So what if he has a girlfriend, you always knew it was going to happen sometime or another. Nothing has changed! Stick to the plan.”  
“Thank you for your input.”  
He ripped the ear bud out, a stubborn child about to reclaim a toy that belonged to him, and dropped it in the gutter without hesitation.  
He didn’t stop walking until he reached Baker Street, the familiar 221 gleaming in gold lettering on the door. He straightened his back, and adjusted his collar, woefully aware of his current state of dress. Ah well, it will at least add some flavor to the scene that was about to play out.  
He raised his hand and knocked on the door.  
“Hello John. I’m home.”


End file.
